


Grande doubleshot on ice, breve no classic, one pump sugar free hazelnut, one pump sugar free vanilla

by covetsubjugation



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bruce is a little shit, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-05 19:19:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4191825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/covetsubjugation/pseuds/covetsubjugation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is an universal law that one asshole will come in when it is nearly closing time and then place a complicated order, designed to make baristas want to kill themselves.</p><p>Bruce Banner is that barista.</p><p>Tony Stark is that asshole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grande doubleshot on ice, breve no classic, one pump sugar free hazelnut, one pump sugar free vanilla

**Author's Note:**

> This is otherwise known as the coffee shop au that no one asked for.

Perhaps it is the weather that day, or maybe he had just got out of the wrong side of the bed, but if one more girl comes in and asks if he can make a pumpkin spice latte, he is going to lose his shit.

 

Bruce Banner is so not getting paid enough for this.

 

Working at Starbucks should qualify him for the United Nations. He had been smiling at insipid customers for several hours now, none of whom had thought of actually considering what they wanted before they stepped in front of the counter, but he hadn't launched himself over the counter to claw off their faces yet so he would say he was pretty good at his job.

 

Because fuck whatever that weird chick said about Starbucks being a good source of the psychology of the American people. Starbucks was a good source of the stupidity of human nature.

 

Take for example the 40 year old woman standing in front of him, hmming and hawing over the limited selection of coffee hanging above his head, currently holding up the line as more and more people build up behind her. Why on earth couldn't she have considered deciding on her drink while she was waiting in line? Why couldn't she have gone to a different Starbucks? Why couldn't she have not lived at all? WHY COULDN'T SHE HAVE DECIDED WHILE SHE WAS WAITING IN LINE?

 

God help her if she asks a stupid question.

 

"So, like, how much is the dark mocha frappe?"

 

*

 

Rush hour is finally over. The crowds are gone, the night is near and Starbucks is now filled instead with the weird lonely hipsters, dressed in their oversized sweaters, ragged beanies and scuffed converses, typing loudly away at their typewriters.

 

Don't these people have actual jobs?

 

Ross had long fled, leaving nothing more than a sneer, leaving him to clear up and lock up the store all alone.

 

He had just tucked the various creams and milks back into the fridges when, lo and behold, just as the malevolent gods would have dictated it, the doors to the store open.

 

And knowing just his luck, two rich snobs are standing at the door, both looking around the store with the air of someone finding dog shit on their shoes.

 

"Why me?" Bruce murmurs under his breath.

 

Expensive shoes tap their way up to the counter, two pairs of eyes scanning over the boards above his head. The taller one, with a long woolen coat draped over his frame and expensive green scarf hanging loosely around his neck, raises a cigarette to his lips.

 

"You can't," Bruce begins, "smoke in here."

 

Green eyes, the exact shade matching his scarf, turns to him. The man gestures at the near silent store around them and shrugs.

 

"You still can't," he replies to the silent message. "Pretty sure it's against the law anyway."

 

The other man, shorter than the other, shakes his head in amusement. "Just do as he says, Loki."

 

Loki shrugs again, this time turning pointedly away and looking at the empty streets outside the store.

 

The shorter man rolls his eyes almost apologetically at Bruce. His eyes are very brown.

 

"He's not really a talking sort of person," he says  in a way of explanation. "Can I get a grande double shot on ice, breve no classic, one pump sugar free hazelnut, one pump sugar free vanilla?"

 

The almost moment had been ruined.

 

"Sure," Bruce says almost automatically, mouth stretching to form a grotesque imitation of a smile.

 

"And I'll have a caramel frappe," says Loki.

 

Bruce promptly decides he likes Loki more.

 

He turns away to make their drinks, hands flying over the counter, all the while cursing his luck, internally screaming at the universal law of that one asshole coming in when it is nearly closing time and then placing a complicated order, designed to make baristas want to kill themselves.

 

"So you got a shitty dad too, huh?" comes the voice from behind him.

 

He doesn't drop the ice but it's a pretty near thing. How on earth did he know that?

 

"Sorry?" he asks, keeping his voice even.

 

He could see out of the corner of his eye, the shorter guy pointing at his wrist.

 

"Unless you're into kinky bondage, which I don't think you are, those are the marks of a shitty dad."

 

Bruce promptly grabs his wrists to cover up the bruises. "It's really none of your business," he says coldly.

 

It might be his imagination but he's pretty sure he just heard Loki murmur "Good job" in a bored tone.

 

Bruce turns back around, grabbing the whipped cream, only to see the shorter guy, this time with a definitely apologetic grin on his face, raise his hands as if surrendering.

 

"I just put my foot in it, didn't I?" he asks.

 

"Yup," is his answer.

 

Another grimace. "I'm sorry," the guy said. "No brain to mouth filter, shouldn't have said anything, sorry that I brought it up and all that."

 

The apology is flippant but he gets the feeling that the other guy genuinely means it. The anger deflates and he offers a shrug of his own. "Whatever."

 

The drinks are done and he grabs them both, setting them on the counter. "That would be $15," he drones.

 

Loki starts digging into his pocket but the other guy stands still, staring at him with a half grin on his face.

 

"Let me make it up to you," he says. "We'll grab a drink or something."

 

Bruce pauses. He is definitely interested, for some reason, in the asshole who came in just as they were closing, but he says nothing, staring at the other guy until he too fumbles in his pocket for cash. The money is placed in his hand and he goes to take it but the guy then makes an aborted movement to grab his hand.

 

"What do you say?"

 

Bruce thinks on it. The guy definitely interests him, and he doesn't exactly have anything to lose, going on his first date in nearly a year. But for slightly petty reasons, he feels like teasing the guy.

 

"I'll think about it," he says instead.

 

The other guy grins, and this grin is slightly happier than the rest. "I'll convince you."

 

Loki clicks his tongue from the door and the other guy rolls his eyes again, an almost perfect symmetrical end to their conversation.

 

"See you around," he promises.

 

"Tony!" Loki says, this time in exasperation, and he grins. The guy practically bounds out of the door and it closes with a final jingle of the bell, leaving Bruce yet again in a near silent store, filled with various typing hipsters.

 

"Hmm," he says.

 

Tony. It's a nice name for a guy with very brown eyes.

 


	2. Double chocolate chip frappuccino with a pump of toffee nut syrup and a pump of cinnamon dolce syrup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made very, very minor adjustments in the first chapter. Correcting grammar mistakes and stuff like that.
> 
> Also, triggers for homophobic language. Enjoy!

Tony shows up the next day, this time alone and in the afternoon. Unfortunately, he is stuck behind another line of idiots. Bruce offers a tired glance at him, peering over the shoulders of the burly customer standing in front of him.

"I asked for iced, not hot, you shit."

Bruce refrains from rolling his eyes. "Sir,” he says with a calmness he does not feel. “There may have been a mistake, I apologise.”

He stops himself from shouting, “You did not ask for ice, you complete waste of oxygen”, among other, decidedly less pleasant things.

The man's face turns red, sucking in his cheeks, clearly gearing himself up for what promised to be a truly boring lecture. "You little-"

"Hey!" comes Tony's voice, and Bruce now refrains from banging his head against the counter.

"Tony," he begins to protest but the man turns around anyway and it is very obvious who his next victim is. He regrets the birth of the customer, and temporarily, his own.

"Why don't you stay out of other people's business, you faggot?"

There is an audible gasp from the other guests. Bruce contemplates punching himself in the face.

Tony smiles but his eyes are a touch too cold. "You might want to reconsider how you address me, sir."

The man sneers. "Or what?"

All of Tony's teeth are bared a bit too menacingly. Bruce is abruptly reminded of a shark. "Or you'll find yourself talking to a Stark."

Oh. Shit. Oh motherfucking shit. Stark? As in Tony Stark? Has he been talking to Tony Stark? Has he been flirting with Tony Stark?

He is not alone in his opinion, for the customer’s face pales dramatically. He flounders, and settles for a huff, before essentially running out of the store, casting fearful looks behind him as he goes..

The rest of the customers all turn to Tony, and if Bruce wasn't still in shock, he would have found their unison and bulging eyes almost comedic.

Tony waves and he smiles again, this time charmingly. "Nothing to see here, folks. Back to your coffee."

Not surprisingly, they all do as he says.

Bruce serves the rest of the customers in a daze, replaying the scene in his head. When Tony steps up to the counter, everyone is already silently hunched over their tables, munching away. Apart from a few shifty looks, most of them staring at Tony, no one is looking at them. Bruce reaches over the counter and yanks at Tony's hand, dragging the other man to the side of the counter, provoking a small yelp. He leans in close.

"You're a Stark."

Tony shrugs, and gives himself a once over.

"I don't have a name tag on, but I'm pretty sure I'm a Stark. Or at least, I was the last time I checked."

"You're a Stark," Bruce repeats in shock.

"I think we have established my name, yes. Tony Stark, how do you do? And you are?"

"Oh shit."

"Interesting name."

Bruce shakes his head, the want to punch himself in the face is stronger than ever. He jabs a finger at Tony instead.

"You're a Stark," he begins. "You're a Stark, and you chatted me up last night."

"You were rather attractive last night. And you are still rather attractive right now."

He shakes his head again and raises his hands in surrender. "Nope," he decides abruptly. "This," and he waves a hand between them. "This isn't going to work out."

Tony's face falls and he frowns. "What? Why? You barely even know me yet."

"For most people, that would actually be a valid reason," Bruce points out. "You're a Stark. You come from a rich family of lawyers. I'm a barista at Starbucks, if you haven't worked that out. We are two very different people."

Tony pulls a face. “We both got shitty dads, that’s a similarity.”

Bruce glances down at Tony’s wrists, but they are covered by the sleeves of his suit and his watch. “I have literally never heard of people hitting it off over shit fathers.”

“We could be the first,” Tony suggests.

Bruce shoots him a look. “That is seriously fucked. And that is exactly one thing in common. We are still very different.”

The frown returns to Tony's face. "People don’t even consider economical differences to be a big deal anymore. How would you know anyway? We have had exactly two conversations to date."

"That's where you're wrong," Bruce retorts, ignoring the second question. "Besides, I don't date rich guys. Especially the heir to Stark & Co."

The frown fades away, and a smirk takes its place. Bruce clenches his fists under the table.

Don't fall for it. Don't fall for it. Don't fall for it.

"Make an exception," Tony suggests. Bruce shakes his head adamantly.

"Nope."

Tony smiles.

"Please, for me?"

Bruce finds himself wavering.

Don't do it, you piece of shit, or I swear to God-

"Excuse me?" comes a different voice and Bruce turns to see a middle aged man, with the largest bald spot he had ever seen, waiting impatiently in front of the counter.

Bruce shoots Tony a look and he strides back to the cashier. With another less than sincere apology, he takes the order and goes through the motions of preparing it. The door jingles and Bruce spares a glance to the side.

Tony is gone.

"Here you go," he says and puts the drink in front of Bald Spot. He turns back to the counter and there Tony stands, still with a smirk on his face.

"I don't date rich guys," he murmurs stubbornly.

Tony's smirk grows.

"One double chocolate chip frappuccino with a pump of toffee nut syrup and a pump of cinnamon dolce syrup," he announces. "And no whipped cream."

Bruce's mouth drops open. How dare he, the rich, entitled asshole. Muttering under his breath, naming creative places as to where Tony could shove his frappuccino, he grabs the smallest cup they have. He starts to scribble Tony's name but stops, and on second thought, scribbles "Asshat" instead.

He adds a crudely drawn penis after a bit more thought.

He makes Tony's drink, adding an extra generous dose of whipped cream, before handing it to the man with a bright smile.

The dirty look that Tony gives him is totally worth the effort.

"Come again soon!"

Tony shakes his head, and with his eyes fixed on Bruce's in a very clear challenge, he takes a long sip.

"I will," he says and Bruce is once again reminded of a shark. If everyone is his family was like him, it’s no wonder that Stark & Co. is such a successful law firm.

There's a smile directed at him and Bruce finds himself smiling back equally warmly.

"I'll convince you," Tony says again and he waves before he turns on his heel and leaves.

He finds himself pleased at the thought of Tony coming back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, if you like it, please leave comments! I am continuing this story (for how long, I don't know, depends on the feedback I get) and I hope you will enjoy it. 
> 
> You can also help (and this is important so I'm bolding it) by **COMMENTING YOUR STARBUCKS ORDER BELOW. THE MORE COMPLICATED, THE BETTER.**
> 
> Sorry for shouting.
> 
> Also, disclaimer. I don't share any of Bruce's opinions on teenage girls, mainly because I am guilty of everything he hates. Sorry Bruce.


	3. Java chip frappuccino with vanilla, less ice, skinny, double blended with 3 shots of espresso, with whipped cream and caramel drizzle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: trigger warning for mentions of child abuse**

The next week finds him in a bad place.

 

The bruises on his wrists are sore again, a dull ache that goes deep down to his bones. He is reminded of their presence every time he reaches out for a cup.

 

His shirt chafes against the broken skin on his shoulder and he bites his lip at the discomfort. He really should have put on a plaster before coming into work.

 

He supposes he should be grateful that there are no injuries to his face this time.

 

He takes the midnight shift as an excuse to stay out the house, and he spends the time counting down the days until he can move out.

 

The bell jangles and he winces, putting on a smile to greet the incoming customer.

 

It takes a moment to put a name to the face before he recognises the man coming in. Loki strides in, head held high, looking for all the world as if he owns the place.

 

But his face is paler than the last time he had seen him, and there are dark circles under his eyes. Under his posh jacket, he only has on a wrinkled shirt and torn jeans. Even his scarf is missing.

 

"A java chip frappuccino with vanilla, less ice, skinny, double blended with 3 shots of espresso, but only two of them blended into the drink, the third has to sit on top, with whipped cream and caramel drizzle," Loki mumbles.

 

Bruce has to close his eyes for a moment to take a deep breath.

 

"I'm going to let that slide, but only because you look like crap," he says but he turns to make the drink. As he works, he can feel Loki staring intensely at his back; He can almost draw out the exact placement of the man's eyes.

 

"You don't exactly look like you're in the best way either," Loki retorts but he hands over the money, and stays at the counter, pressing a hip into the wooden side.

 

Again, the aches flare in his wrist and he resists clapping down on them. That wouldn't exactly help anyway.

 

Instead, he only shrugs. "Well, you know how shitty dads are," he watches Loki scans over the cup. The drink within isn't exactly the most appetising looking of drinks and he wonders how anyone could even bear to put it in their mouth.

 

It doesn't matter anyway, Loki paid the money.

 

"How did you know my name?" Loki asks, as his green eyes lock onto his name written on the side of the cup.

 

"Tony said your name the last time you were here together," Bruce points out. "And you're not exactly unforgettable." Loki looks almost smug. He takes a sip of the drink and pulls a face.

 

"Acceptable," is his verdict and Bruce rolls his eyes.

 

"You paid for that weird drink, I only did as I was asked." Normally he wouldn't dare mouth off to a customer like this, but it is almost 3 am, and there is no one here but Loki and him.

 

The other man smirks and it hits Bruce that this is the first time he ever really had a conversation with the guy.

 

"Why are you here?" he asks. "Besides buying that disgusting concoction."

 

Loki blinks as if in surprise. "Well, you know how shitty dads are," he quotes back to Bruce and Banner nods understandingly.

 

They stand in silence on either sides of the counter and Bruce is about to excuse himself to get away from the silence before it becomes too awkward when Loki suddenly pulls out a cigarette and lights it up.

 

"Hey!" Bruce protests loudly. "No smoking in here!" and he plucks the cigarette out of Loki's hand, stubbing it out in an empty mug. The own man frowns in irritation for a split second but then he huffs and looks away.

 

"So about your shitty dad," Loki begins and Bruce interrupts him.

 

"Can we not talk about him?" he asks but Loki continues on, as if Bruce had said nothing at all.

 

"Why don't you leave?" Loki says and Bruce laughs hollowly.

 

"I'm trying," he mutters. "Starbucks doesn't exactly pay much," and Loki nods as if he has said something profound. He then stands up straight and after reaching into his pocket, slides a note over the counter. Without another word, he turns and takes off, disgusting drink in hand, leaving Bruce to stare after him and his billowing coat.

 

He determinedly doesn’t look down at the money on the counter, simply wiping it down, clearing away the wet stain from Loki's coffee cup.

 

When he can't put it off for any longer, he looks down at it.

 

There's a hundred dollar note sitting on the counter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't Loki such a nice guy?
> 
> I actually updated this fic which is a miracle and a half so I deserve much applause.
> 
> This is a rather short chapter (sorry), but I've got a slightly longer one coming your way. I'm actually already done with the next chapter, but I'm an ass and I'm going to make you wait for a week. Maybe shorter. You will never believe what happens in the next chapter. If you can guess it, I am going to cry because I am a predictable cliche.
> 
> Many thank yous to all those who have so kindly commented their Starbucks orders, and I'll see you next time!
> 
>  
> 
> **Special thanks to[Lemonadeflowers](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemonadeflowers) for the use of her weird Starbucks order!**
> 
>  
> 
> **Do you want to be in this fic as well? Feel free to leave nice comments, and your weirdest Starbucks orders in the comments below! (:**


	4. Americano

He shows up to work on Friday morning. The line is long enough that they are practically pressed against the glass walls.

Ross scowls at him when he comes in but he pays no attention to the idiot. He pulls on his apron and ties it behind his back, several cups are promptly shoved in his direction and he begins work.

The good thing about the morning crowd is that they tended to be hassled office workers, rather than irritating hipsters. Their drinks were for the most part simple and straightforward, no messy orders. They just wanted their coffee and to be gone.

His hands fly over the bar and he barely thinks, simply making drink after drink, placing them on the counter with a slight smile at the customer. The crowd around the counter eventually thins out as all the workers get served and he heaves a sigh of relief, thanking whatever holy powers there are for the small breaks between rush hours.

Ross has already disappeared off somewhere and he is free to stand behind the cashier, staring blankly into space, only serving the occasional customer.

He is pepping himself up for the lunch rush hour when the bell jangles and Tony appears. His lips are pressed together in a hard line, eyes almost stormy with anger, and he marches towards the counter.

Without as a by-your-leave, Tony reaches over the counter and grabs Bruce's hand. He hisses in pain as he is wrenched forward, and he is close to smacking Tony upside the head when he notices that the other man is staring at his bruises, running tender fingers over the purple spots. His touch is completely at odds with his expression.

"You want me to sue your dad?" he demands as he looks up at Bruce with his shark like smile. "I can make sure he never touches you again, the dirty mother-"

"Tony!" Bruce cuts in as he casts a hurried glance at the harried mother sitting in the corner, tending to her four small children. "First of all," he whispers, "I'm working. Second of all, there are children here. And third.." He pauses to lick his lips, "How did you even know about this?"

"Loki told me," Stark answers as he glares down at the bruises again. "He told me you were in a bad shape on Wednesday night, and when I pressed him, he said that you had bruises on your arms." He glowers in agitation. "Do you want me to sue your dad?" he asks again and Bruce shakes his head.

Tony frowns. "Why not?" he demands and Bruce looks away in embarrassment. He sees a customer come in and he pushes Tony away. "We'll talk later," he promises as he puts on a smile on the elderly man who hobbles up to the counter, overly excited granddaughter at his side. "What can I get for you?"

The lunch rush hour comes in with a menace, and Bruce barely has a moment to breathe. He keeps an eye on Tony, who sits at a tiny table, looking completely out of place, dressed up as nicely as he is while sitting smack bang within a crowd of ratty hipsters. He has his phone in his hand, and taps away at it non stop, but the man keeps looking up from it to stare back at Bruce. He looks almost... concerned?

Bruce turns away from Tony.

Finally, the hordes go and Bruce is completely wiped. His shift is done and he wants to fall over and take a nap on the floor but he can see Tony still waiting for him at the table. He pulls off his apron, handing over the job to the next barista, Becky, an energetic, if a bit too enthusiastic girl. Then, feeling as if he had morphed into the old man from earlier, he hobbles over to Tony. He feels worried when Tony barely even smiles.

"You okay?" he asks as he sits down. A soft moan punctuates his words as the pressure is lifted off his feet. He would rest his head on the table, but he does work there and he has a better idea than most of what has been on that table, and it isn't pretty.

Tony stares back at him, a steely look in his eyes as he opens his mouth and says, "Move in with me."

Bruce blinks, shakes his head to clear his ears, then blinks again. "Huh?"

"Move in with me," Tony repeats himself and the look on his face is so serious that Bruce forgets how to speak.

"Er... Um..." he answers eloquently. "Don't you think you should buy me a drink first?" Tony raises up a finger, and he slides off his seat, walking around Bruce to get to the counter. He is still in shock so he doesn't turn around, staring at the seat that Tony just vacated, until the man himself returns.

He slides over a Americano for Bruce, and he holds for himself a hot chocolate. The sight brings a smile to Bruce's face and he finally looks into Tony's eyes.

It is clear that he is deadly serious and Bruce has no idea how to respond, so he takes a small sip of his Americano before he puts it down, sucking in his cheeks to hide the fact that he just scalded his tongue.

"Why?" he asks once he stops internally screaming from the pain. Tony leans forward intensely and Bruce leans back in discomfort.

"Because I know you're looking for a place," he begins and Bruce looks away briefly in embarrassment, realising that Loki must have told Tony about his financial situation. "And I have a spare room. I don't want you to live with that bastard anymore so you can come live with me."

Bruce chews on his lip. The less logical side of his mind is already screaming its approval, pulling out bongo drums and vuvuzelas as it celebrates by doing the macarena. The logical side of his mind however, while attempting to strangle the less logical side and confiscate its bongos and vuvuzelas, is explaining why it would never work. He could never get it past his dad, he would always owe Tony Stark a favour, he was on a completely different level from Tony and would never fit in, and he wasn't exactly willing to be Stark's charity case.

A tentative smile tugged at the corners of Tony's mouth. "Loki stays with me," he offers. "So you will always have a less annoying person to hang with. And," here he smiles with his mouth, "I don't hit, unless you want me to in, like, a kinky setting."

The logical side could get bent.

"Okay," he hesitantly agrees. "I will move in with you." The smile is starting to spread to Tony's eyes, the sides crinkling with joy.

"But," he interjects. "You have to help me move out, and we have to do so sneakily. Brian would never let me leave, and if he finds out, I'm dead."

Tony nods in agreement but his whole face is filled with joy and Bruce finds himself smiling back.

It couldn’t be any worse living with Tony than his own father.

  
Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is going to be a whopper.


	5. Espresso

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW//VIOLENCE, DOMESTIC ABUSE, PANIC ATTACKS**

"This is a terrible idea."

 

"It's too late to back out now," Tony says cheerily.

 

They are sitting in Tony's car down the street from his house, and Bruce can't imagine a time he has felt more nervous in his life. He is essentially running away from his home, escaping from his alcoholic father. Not to mention the fact that he is sitting in a way too expensive car, which looks completely out of place in the rundown and shabby neighbourhood.

 

He spent the last two weeks sneakily packing up his things, trying to pretend that everything was normal in front of his dad. He has a sad duffle bag hiding under his bed, atop a box filled with his books and a few more of his possessions. He knows his dad is about to leave the house to go to the store and buy more alcohol, and the man would be gone for at least an hour or two, more than enough time for him to grab his stuff and leave. He even has a little note for his dad in his pocket, just so Brian wouldn't attempt to call the police on him. Everything should be fine.

 

So why does he keep drumming his fingers on his thigh?

 

"It's gonna be okay," he heard Tony say and he turns to see the guy looking straight at him, with nothing but sincerity in his eyes.

 

"Um... thanks," Bruce replies awkwardly, glancing nonstop out of the windscreen to look at his house. The minutes are ticking past and it is getting closer to 2:30 with every second.

 

Finally the door opens, and Bruce sees the shoddy silhouette of his father stumbling out of the door and down the street, thankfully moving away from them.

 

"Alright," he pants, unbuckling his belt. "If I'm not back in 20 minutes, come in and get me." He opens the door and gets out of the car, speedwalking up to his house. He can see his father's figure disappearing around the corner and his fingers fumble on the key, they're shaking so badly.

 

He finally gets the door open and he pushes in. The house stinks of vomit and sour beer, and he holds his breath as he creeps up the stairs. There is no one in the house, but he still moves quietly, making sure not to even step on the creaky stair.

 

He throws himself under his bed and hurriedly pulls out the bag and grabs hold of the box. They don't look as if they have been disturbed and he feels like he can breathe a little easier. But the bands around his chest don't lighten up, and his breath is still coming in panicky gasps.

 

He wiggles out from under his bed and then he hears it, a shifting of weight, the floorboards creaking under someone's weight. His heart is in his mouth and he turns, and there Brian stands.

 

The man is clearly drunk, breath bitter and sour, eyes bleary and bloodshot. But there is nothing bleary about the rage in his eyes and the knife in his hand.

 

"Get up," he rasps and Bruce does, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the gleaming knife in Brian's hand.

 

"What the fuck is this?" Brian demands, gesturing at the bag with the knife, and when Bruce fumbles for an answer, he kicks out, hitting Bruce in the side of his leg where a yellowing bruise remains.

 

He yelps and reaches down at his leg unconsciously. Brian immediately kicks out again and this time, he catches Bruce in the stomach. He feels the air being punched out of him and he collapsed back onto the floor.

 

Instantly, Brian is in his space, a clenched fist in his shirt, the knife in his other hand, centimeters away his eyes. "What are you doing?" Brian asks again, and he is drunk enough that his hands are shaking. Any wrong moves and the knife will be embedded in his eye.

 

"Nothing," he gasps out and Bruce can feel himself break out in a cold sweat, beads running down his temple.

 

"Don't lie to me!" the man roars and he practically whimpers in fear. The knife shifts fractionally and it is pressed into the skin beside his eye, it trails down slowly, the pressure leaving behind a red angry line.

 

The knife slips down to his throat and his breath catches as it rests over his jugular. The jagged edge is pressed deep into his skin that he can almost feel it tearing open with each breath he takes.

 

"Shut up-" the man begins to hiss when the door behind them flies open with a bang. Luckily Brian doesn't jump or his throat would have been slit open.

 

Tony stands in the doorway, clad in his official looking suit, phone in hand. Even from his vantage point, Bruce can see an unfamiliar number is dialled into the phone.

 

"Brian," Tony says, voice deep and dark with danger. "I suggest you put the knife down. Now."

 

The man growls and Bruce gasps as the knife presses a little deeper into the side of his neck. "What are you going to do about it, you little pussy?" Brian shouts over his shoulder. "Throw your precious phone at me?"

 

"No," Tony smiles. "If you don't put the knife down, I will call the army. For me, they will arrive and put you down before you can even blink. And I will then personally ensure that you go to the darkest depths of hell, with the scum of humanity, for the longest time possible."

 

Brian scoffs. "You don't know the army," he sneers. "So what's to stop me from slitting this little liar's throat right now?" He snarls down at Bruce when he begins to struggle. "Do you think I'm dumb?" he yells. "Did you think I didn't know what you were doing? You think you just leave? You're never leaving, you fuck!"

 

"I'm a Stark," Tony growls. "And I know the army. So if you don't want your balls to be ripped off by the nice men in prison, you put the knife down now."

 

Bruce scarcely dares breathe, his life in the hands of the monster he calls his father. Any moment now, he thinks, he could be choking on his own blood.

 

The silence grows, punctuated with the harsh breathing in the room. Tony's finger shifts closer to the call button.

 

"Your corpse will be buried in that prison," he promises.

 

His heart skips a beat as the knife is pulled away from his neck and he is shoved to the floor. Brian spits in his face.

 

"Get the fuck out of here," he roars and Bruce scrambles for his bag and box, fleeing the room. He pushes blindly past Tony and is down the stairs and out of the house. He rockets into the car and locks himself in, tossing his belongings into the backseat. The tears are pouring down his face and he feels a scream lodge in his throat as his heart pounds away. He buries his face between his legs and hyperventilates, breath punching in and out of him from his near death encounter. He can't hear anything over his own breath and the only indication he has of Tony's return is when the smell of cologne fills the car and it begins moving. They speed away from his house but he can't bear to look up, can't bear to watch his own escape, he is still shaking all over.

 

He nearly died. He doesn't understand what is happening to him, only knows that he was close to death today and now all he understands is fear.

 

The tears slow to a trickle and he mostly stops trembling, clutching at his own hands to steady the shaking. He pries his head up from in between his legs and blinks past the tears, recognising the bright lights of Tony's garage. Tony himself is sitting patiently next to him, hands clenched in his lap as his eyes fix on Bruce.

 

"Better?" he asks and Bruce slowly shakes his head, the need to scream still lodged in his throat. Tony nods and he helps Bruce out of the car. The lights seem dimmer as they make their way upstairs, Bruce is still folded in on himself.

 

Tony leads him to the bathroom, and he falls onto the toilet seat, legs suddenly weak. A white towel appears in his vision and he looks up in confusion in Tony.

 

"I have to touch you," the other man says slowly, gesturing to the towel. "You okay with that?"

 

He nods and the damp cloth wipes gently over his face, and even more gently, over his neck, cleaning off the traces of sweat and tears. Clothes are pressed into his hands and Bruce is silently led into the shower. The water washes over with the lightest of pressures, and he is grateful because he doesn't think he can take much else.

 

When he is done, Tony comes back into the bedroom, this time with plasters and ointment in his hands. He rubs over the red line on Bruce's face with the ointment and a tiny bit is dabbed on the broken skin on his neck as well. The clean white plaster against his skin throws him, the clear difference mocking him for his frailty.

 

Eventually, they sit in silence face to face in the bathroom, hands clenched in their individual laps. He can hear Tony clear his throat, and he looks up at him tiredly. He is so tired.

 

"You..you.. you okay?" Tony stammers and Bruce tries smiling at him in reassurance. He doesn't think it's working.

 

"You know," he begins, licking his dry lips. "You know, I actually wrote him a note?" He tries to laugh and he just ends up crying again, the tears streaming down his cheeks as ugly sobbing sounds are torn out of his throat. He has never felt so scared in his life, or betrayed. His own flesh and blood hated him so much that he tried to kill him. He is so tired from hiding from his own father, so tired of being beaten up, and the exhaustion and fear has completely overwhelmed him, so now he is slumped on the bathroom floor, crying like a child while Tony Stark hugs him from behind.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he hears Tony whisper into his ear and he wants to assure Tony that it isn't his fault, but he can't stop crying for long enough to do so, so he just keeps crying instead.

 

The man keeps his arms wrapped tightly around him.

  
"It's gonna be alright. I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if there is anything you find offensive with my description of Bruce's panic attack, from what I know, the shaking and everything is common, but because I don't suffer from it myself, if I overstepped any boundaries, let me know!
> 
> This story will also be going on hiatus until the 12th of November! I will be taking my O levels from the 19th of October onwards and I need to study so... Wish me luck!
> 
> My tumblr is below if you want to say hi! (:


	6. Chapter 6

When he next wakes up, he finds himself swamped by a marshmallow of a bed, white and flufffy. Bruce allows himself to get swallowed up by the bed, spine sinking deeper in the mattress. His eyes bats groggily on the ceiling, and he wonders why they are so dry and why his throat has a lump in it.

Ignorance is brief before the memory of the day before slams into him at full force. A groan lurches out of his throat as he remembers the shakiness of his breakdown after he and Tony had escaped his father’s house.

Speaking of which, where is he? His eyes fly open again and this time he really takes in the room. It's white and pristine, with the bed basically taking up the whole room. Glass windows stretch across a whole side of the room, but the windows are translucent and he can't really see much other than the occasional speeding glow. There's two doors on his other side, and he briefly wonders which leads him out of this room.

He swings his legs off the bed and his feet plant in the softest carpet he has ever felt in his life. He blinks down at the comfort he feels and pads over to the first door.

It opens easily in his hand and on the other side is a spacious bathroom, complete with a separate shower and bathtub. He thinks he can also see the reflection of a jacuzzi in the mirror. On the other side of the bathroom is another door and he shuffles across to open it and this time, there is a gigantic walk in closet, although the hangers are mostly empty.

He knew the Stark family was rich, he just didn't know they were this rich. Shaking his head at the extravagance, he makes his way back to the bedroom and tries the other door.

A confusing maze of corridors face him and he momentarily thinks of simply getting back into bed and praying that it will magically lead him to wherever the fuck other people are. But a delicious smell then wafts into the room, and it is so good that his stomach growls in approval.

From there, Bruce simply follows his nose, going wherever the smell is strongest and he finally lands up in the kitchen, where a familiar figure is bent over the stove. “Tony?” he asks and the figure spins around and yup, that is definitely Tony.

“Hey!” the other man greets him cheerfully before gesturing at the table behind him. “Can you help me set the table? I'm almost done with breakfast.”

Biting back the retort about how he didn't know where anything in this house was, he simply goes for “I didn't know you cooked” while he mindlessly opens drawers. He is pleasantly surprised that he manages to find the cutlery within the first five drawers.

Tony smirks at him over his shoulder and Bruce refuses to meet his eye, just in case Tony could tell that he found that particular position very flattering for the other man’s figure. “There's a lot you don't know about me,” he hears as he lays out the shining knives and forks before settling at one end of the table.

Before long, Tony delivers a dish in front of him, red rice topped with a towering egg souffle thing. “Thees ees de special deesh for tooday,” Tony announces exaggeratedly in a very bad French accent and Bruce smiles weakly at him. The food is good though, and he's so hungry that half of it is gone before he even manages to blink.

He can hear Tony fumbling around the kitchen, cutlery and pots clanging together as the sound of running water reaches his ear as well. Tony prattles on as he washed up. “Loki lives here as well,” he announces. “He's usually gone in the day, but he likes to come back at night and complain about the lack of food.”

“His bedroom is right next to yours, and he's a light sleeper. Extremely grumpy too, not the greatest in the mornings. He's better at making tea than me, but seeing as you work in a coffee shop, I'm sure that's no bother.”

“Also, did you see the bathroom and closet? The whole thing’s yours so you don't have to worry about sharing. If you need anything, just let me know so I can send out a note to get it for you-”

“Tony,” Bruce interrupts, fingers drumming erratically on the wooden table. His mouth is horribly dry. “You don't have to-” He stops, teeth tugging at his lips. “You don't have to be so nice, just because you saw my dad yesterday.”

Tony’s expression turns stony, and Bruce hastens to continue. “I appreciate the effort but it's alright. Brian’s not usually that bad.” That is a straight up lie, age old bruises ache beneath his shirt. Tony’s eyes narrow, as if he can see the yellowing bruises adorning his skin. His jaw is set in a hard line, and he is beginning to shake his head in disagreement. Bruce leaps up, dramatically checking the clock as he does so. “I need to go to work,” he excuses himself hastily. “I'm going to go get ready.”

He practically runs down the hallway, refusing to turn around and meet Tony’s eyes, even as he feels them burn into his back. His clothes are all still in his duffle bag at the foot of the bed, and he throws them on, eyes closed to avoid seeing the bruises on himself. He doesn't want to deal with that right now.

He doesn’t understand why Tony is so mad, does his lie matters so much? Does it really change anything Tony saw yesterday? His shoulders rise up to his ears, and he would like nothing more than burrow his face into his pillow and cease to exist.

Tony is standing outside of his room when he emerges, car keys in hand, expression unreadable. He jerks his head to the side. “I'll drive you to work, c’mon,” he mutters and Bruce reluctantly follows. The trip down to the garage is confusing, he can't really keep up with the winding maze, and it is a bit of blur how he even manages to get there. They take a different car from the one that Tony had driven in yesterday and the drive down to the coffee shop is an especially sullen one.

Bruce picks at a loose thread on his work shirt, staring out of the window the whole way there, glancing at Tony’s reflection in the glass whenever he thinks he can get away with it. The glass warps Tony’s face, comically twisting his stubborn scowl, but Bruce’s heart still sinks at the look.

He hasn't lived with Tony for more than a day, and already he suspects he has made a mistake.

“Are you okay?” he ventures hesitantly. Tony’s face contorts into interesting shapes, but his eyes soften minutely as he looks over at Bruce. “Not really, no,” he answers in a soft tone, but he looks less mad than before, so Bruce counts it as a win.

Tony doesn't say goodbye when he alights outside of work, but simply grunts in acknowledgement to Bruce’s departure before taking off. He slops into work, dragging his feet. Work is mundane and not even remotely challenging, leaving Bruce's mind free to wander. Despondently, he wonders if Tony regrets asking him to move in. His fingers drift to his phone, nestled within his pockets, and he thinks on whether he should text Tony that their living arrangement isn't working out or call him.

Nothing special happens to him, and his coworkers seem to sense his gloomy mood, and leaves him alone. Six o’clock is fast approaching and he is about to fold up his apron and leave, when the door clangs. “Welcome to Starbucks,” he greets, completely downtrodden. He glances up, simply to maintain the illusion of helpfulness, but what stands in front of him is not a teenage girl, nor a pessimistic worker, but rather Tony Stark, complete with bright pink suit and equally vibrant purple flowers.

“Hi,” he greets, mouth curling up in a tiny smile. “What would you recommended for a person who is very sorry about his behaviour this morning, and wants to make the most heartfelt apology he can?”

Bruce feels his mouth lifting up in a smile, but forces the compulsion down. He answers coolly, “I would recommended a verbal apology and flowers that he isn't allergic to.”

Tony’s face falls and he looks so sad that Bruce can't help the laughter that bubbles out of him. He's wrecked with giggles, body shaking with mirth, and he laughs. His mood has completely turned around. “I'm kidding,” he chokes out and the relief on Tony’s face is breathtaking. The man presses the flowers into his hand, and grasps the other with gentle fingers.

“Bruce,” he begins. “My behaviour today was out of line, I shouldn't have gotten angry. Look, whatever happened between you and your father is your business, unless you want me to get involved in it. I'm sorry for being pissy and none of it's your fault, okay? I would help you when you want me to, and I'll try to be more understanding of everything right now.”

Bruce wraps his own hand around the other man’s. The apology has eased the tight knot in his stomach, and he finds that he can breathe again. “Alright,” he says. “Thank you.”

Tony breaks into a smile. “Want a ride home?” he asks and Bruce finds himself grinning back.

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I've have returned, did you miss me?
> 
> The last chapter was a bit gloom and doom, so now I've tried to lighten the mood a bit (it seems a bit unsuccessful tbh), but the next chapter should be a good one.
> 
> The coffee shop au seems to be taking a turn out of the coffee shop, I kinda want it to remain purely a coffee shop au, but we'll see where the writing takes me.
> 
> Purple hyacinths represent sorrow, and asking for forgiveness, so that's where the chapter's name comes from. If you've any strange coffee orders you'll like to see, comment them below!
> 
> Also, check out my [Patreon!](https://www.patreon.com/covetsubjugation?ty=h)


	7. Vodka Shots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This will be a light-hearted piece of work, easy, in and out," I said.
> 
> "This is none of those of things," I say.

“So I’m just saying, why should Superman have human genitalia, y’know? He is literally an alien, from a whole ‘nother planet, not even within our own solar system, and you’re telling me he has human genitalia? I call bullshit, I say Lois Lane had to do a fuck load of adjusting when she got together with Superman.”

“Mhmm,” Bruce hums, eyes fixed on the sidewalk outside the coffee house.

“I’m telling you, I bet you ten dollars that Superman does not have human genitalia. He probably has tentacles or something of that sort.”

Bruce didn’t even bother to respond.

“Hey Bruce? Are you listening to me? Hello?”

Bruce sighs, breath huffing out as he turns to look at Clint, his hands flying across the counter as he mixes a drink, mouth babbling a mile a minute. “Yes Clint, I'm here,” he groans, he's sure his exhaustion and irritating is radiating off him. He makes sure Clint can see his mouth moving nonetheless.

Clint frowns at him, his tiny eyebrow piercing catching the light as he does so. “You okay?” he asks. “I'm pretty I'm the one with the hearing aid.” Bruce slumps down, head resting on the recently cleaned counter.

“I'm fine,” he slurs, and it's true. He's fine, he's more than fine, he's living with better housemates now, Tony has stayed true to his words and stayed out of his family drama as much as Bruce wanted him to, and he doesn't wake up wondering if he's going to get hit anymore. But something’s still wrong, he can't exactly put his finger on it, he just feels permanently exhausted and tired.

To make matters worse, he has to go back home alone today since Tony was recently entrusted with a huge law case and can't make it in time to pick Bruce up.

Clint is still frowning at him, not surprising as he must look like the human version of a dish rag right now. He would make the effort to stand up but exhaustion weighs heavily in his bones and he will not be moved for hell or high heaven.

Or until the next customer comes in, whatever comes first.

Maybe it's his life, he thinks. Sure, the living situation is great, but his life has sort of come to a standstill since he moved in with Tony. He didn't graduate early like Tony, and wasn't that fun when he realised that the man was two years younger than him and already a hotshot lawyer while he was still slaving away at Starbucks, and he hasn't really been able to actively jobsearch with the move and all.

$30,000, he thinks dully to himself. $30,000 on a degree and yet he works at Starbucks, earning barely $10 an hour.

Too late he realises he hasn't actually said anything for at least two minutes, and has just been staring blankly at the space in front of Clint’s face. The guy looks about ready to call for an ambulance. Bruce blinks hard, and shakes his head roughly, curls bouncing about the place as he gathers his wits.

“It's nothing,” he promises as he stretches out the kinks in his back. “Just been doing a lot of thinking.” A sly grin grows across Clint’s face and he pats Bruce’s shoulder in mock sympathy. “Of course,” he moues condescendingly. “It's always so difficult to do it for the first time.”

An explosion of indignant sound escapes his mouth as he pushes Clint’s hand off. “Fuck off,” he proclaims, thankful for the near-empty store.

Clint’s still chuckling when his watch beeps, signalling the end of his shift. He emits a huff of pleasure, and rips off his apron. “Listen, Bruce,” he begins. “Me and Nat are going clubbing later tonight, you can join us if you want.”

Nat, or Natasha, was Clint’s… Well, he didn’t actually know how they were related. Their relationship status wasn't that clear as to whether they were simply best friends, dating, or otherwise. Natasha also worked at the store, and was around the same age as Clint. She wasn't the most forthcoming at times, but she had a sharp tongue and witty enough to scare off the bravest of people. Bruce had been there the first time a guy tried to neg her before asking her out. He still believes simply pouring the boiling hot water over the guy would have been less severe than the burn he received when Nat was done with him.

He glanced at his wrist, two hours until he himself gets off and Ross comes to take over. He doesn't really want to go back to a large empty apartment anyway so he nods his agreement. They agree that Clint and Nat would drop by to pick him up and they would get a quick bite to eat before diving into the club scene.

The store is quiet without Clint around and the two hours pass by slowly. When Ross shows up with his customary scowl, he wastes no time in clocking out and leaving the store, coincidentally finishing up just as Clint and Nat appear. They make for the other side of town, where there is a smaller and less well-known club, stopping as promised for food. It's only Thursday, and the crowd is quite small, so the bouncer simply waves them in when they arrive.

The thing about smaller clubs is that the sound amplification is so much better that he barely has a foot in the door when he feel the bass thumping in his chest. It blocks out all the noise in his head, and he genuinely can’t hear himself think, like every thought is being banged out of his head by the beat. His feet are already shuffling to the beat, hips swaying side to side as he makes his way to the bar, following Nat’s bright red hair.

Somehow Nat has already got six shots lined up for them by the time he stumbles up next to the duo, he suspects it has something to do with the intimidating scowl she has that compels people to obey, and Clint is drumming his fingers against the bar in the way that means he needs to be drunk and preferably six hours ago. They clink the tiny glasses together and he pours the two shots down his throat in quick succession, cherishing the burn in his throat that replaces the lingering buzz of thoughts in his head.

Bruce feels his wrist being grabbed and he is tugged onto the dance floor, dancing between the twisting bodies of his coworkers. They’re dancing close to him, just enough for him to feel that small gust of air that occurs when people brush past you, the lingering feeling of woven threads trailing across his skin. Nat and Clint are busy staring into the other’s eyes over his shoulder but they don’t let him even move an inch away from them.

The club isn’t that crowded, so technically there’s no reason for them to be so close to him, but he find that he doesn’t mind, their body language at least clearly displaying they’re dancing together. This is uncomplicated in the way his usual life isn’t, just a couple of friends moving together.

Already their bodies are slick with sweat; He doesn’t know exactly how many songs he’s been dancing for, concentrating on the uncomforting flashes of light over his friends’ faces, red, blue and purple leaving spots in his eyes. Clint’s fingers brush his wrists and he is suddenly brought into the moment, highly aware of the dryness in his mouth and sweat leaving its glimmer down his forehead. This time, Clint and Nat don’t object when he taps out, making his way back to the bar.  The leather of the stool sticks uncomfortably to his thighs, but his chest heaves in and out as he tries to catch his breath away from the crowd. He chokes out his order to the bartender, who looks slightly concerned for him but serves him anyway, and he downs it in two gulps.

Something in Clint’s look has got him feeling a bit too real, like he’s been living a dream up until now. When the lights were flashing over his friend’s face, there was a moment where the world had whited out, lost in the brightness of the club lights, a moment where he felt suspended in the tiniest fraction of time, and two thoughts had come into mind.

One, he wasn’t happy. This wasn’t a surprise.

There had been something in the cut of Clint’s jaw, something in the glint of his friend’s eyes, that said he wasn’t happy, and he had recognised that same feeling, felt it in his own eyes and jaw. That thought he had at the beginning of the day, where he felt as if he was wasting his life away at the coffee shop, it was true. He had never had a plan past graduating university, didn’t know where he was heading towards, leaving him stuck at a coffeeshop with an expensive degree. His life wasn’t satisfactory, the coffee shop wasn’t helping.

Two, he was angry, very angry.

He finally understood the look in Clint and Nat’s eyes when they were staring at each other; It was anger. Anger at the world for failing them, anger at life for whatever it had done, anger at the knowledge that their life wasn’t quite where they wanted it to be but they still had to settle for whatever they had.

Bruce knew Clint and Nat were both younger than him, approaching their final years of study. He knew Clint was studying something in business, Nat something in design. He also knew that was not what either of them had wanted, but they were trapped by families and expectations and the like.

He had the same anger, but for different reasons. Anger at his father for being such a fuck-up, anger at his mother for dying young and leaving him alone, anger that he had to constantly be saved and not saving himself. So really, the unhappiness and anger was one and the same.

He felt more sober than he ever had, even with the three drinks swimming in his system. He might not know what he had to do precisely but the knowledge that whatever he had now was not enough was ironically enough. When he glanced over at Clint and Nat, he could see the same knowledge reflected back at him.

Huh, he might know the two better from this realisation than from working with them for almost a year.

“Hey,” he hears dazedly, and he turns to see a blond guy sprawled casually on the seat next to him. “Can I buy you a drink?”

The stranger is blond, hair pouring over his head into his eyes, overly muscular with his thin shirt straining to not tear over his chest, cheap fake glasses perched on his nose. Basically nothing like Tony.

“No,” Bruce hears himself answering. “I’m good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I wrote this over 2 months? As in, there is a two month gap between the first and second part of this chapter. Also, not looked over or edited so.
> 
> Hello, I am very tired but I do hope you like this chapter. It was kinda difficult to write, so criticism and feedback will be welcomed. Also, tell me how you are in the comments below.
> 
> All opinions of Superman's genitalia are my own.

**Author's Note:**

> Want more? My tumblr is [here](http://www.bisexualexhamilton.tumblr.com).


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